


Death's Gamble

by darkhelmetj, Miss_Gems



Category: Diablo (Video Game), Diablo III
Genre: Ancient Nephalem, Can't emphasize enough, Crack Crossover, Crossover, Death's Bargain, Diablo: Amor Aeternus tie-in, Digital Art, Drunken Shenanigans, Fallen Angels, Fan Comics, Fluffy Angels AU Rathma, Humor, Illustrations, Malthael is a sore loser, Mortal Angels, Mortal!Malthael, Naked idiocy, Nephalem, Other, Strip Poker, That this is mostly crackfic, fluffy angels au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 19:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20711276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkhelmetj/pseuds/darkhelmetj, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Gems/pseuds/Miss_Gems
Summary: Tyrael misplaces his brother. Malthael misplaces his pants. Implied cross-over with the Fluffy Angel AU. Loosely inspired by the “Death’s Bargain” breeches you acquire in-game. Story by darkhelmetj; illustrations by Miss_Gems.





	Death's Gamble

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the years following “In All Things Light and Dark” but before “Arcane and Apples”. Malthael hasn’t officially been granted free use of the town yet, and certainly not of the tavern. I cannot emphasize enough how much of a crack fic this is, even within the cross-over context.

It wasn’t Malthael’s first choice to sit in the Slaughtered Calf Inn in the late hours of the evening, when it was usually filled to the brim with intoxicated vagrants and Nephalem intent on setting fire to the banisters. Tyrael should have been back hours ago. The delay itself didn’t concern him. His brother was capable of handling nearly anything, and the graver issue would be if he moved from his spot and the former angel couldn’t _find_ him.

Thus, he waited, watching silently while the tavern descended into abhorrent debauchery. When Bron accidentally brought him a stein while serving the others, he said nothing to correct him. He could only scratch so many angelic runes onto the table with his knife. Drinking was a small step above utter boredom, but it was still _above_.

He took a sip.

Feh. It wasn’t even mead. He made a displeased face and took another mouthful, then looked about the room for anything that could possibly entertain him.

* * *

“What do you mean he’s not here?”

Bron gave Tyrael a hooded look from overtop the bar before dipping below it to fetch another bottle. “Exactly what I said. He’s not here.”

“I told him to wait.”

“I’m sure you did. But look.” The bartender straightened and clanked a bottle of spirits down, nodding as one of the other patrons flipped him several gold coins. “He ain’t here. And I’m not your brother’s bloody keeper. He’s a big boy.”

“Bron.” By the Light, sometimes everyone seemed fit to test his patience. Tyrael braced himself against the bar and leaned towards the shorter man. “What was he _doing_ when he _was_ here?”

“Drinking alone like a love-spurned sap. What d’you think he was doing, dancing a fucking Westmarchian jig?”

“And then? He left?”

“Course he left. He’d still be here otherwise.” Bron looked away quickly, turning back to resume wiping out glasses.

Tyrael’s eyes narrowed. “And what was he doing in the interim between leaving and not leaving?”

“Last I saw he was playing cards with some necromancer-looking type.”

“And you _let him_?” Tyrael exclaimed, the outburst temporarily silencing conversation around them. When the patrons returned to their revelry, he turned back to Bron and quietly added, “Was it Osseus?”

“No. Never seen him before.”

“Then who was it?”

“Hells if I know. But, I’ll tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a prime sitting location right here. Drinks on me, as many as you want, _if_ you stop asking me about that Light forsaken miscreant.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then go find him, for all I care. Stop bothering me. I have a tavern to run.”

* * *

“Aye, he was stark naked as the day he was born! Sprinted right off down the cobble after another.”

“Did you see what he looked like?”

“Only saw him out the corner of me eye. Then I turned and he was gone!”

“I think you imagined it, dear,” a woman said, patting her husband on the arm. He swayed merrily. “Come home and I’ll fix up your confusion in a right old moment.”

“Awwwck, leave me be! I wasn’t imagining! Was a man chasing a man. A bird man, even. I think. Had some feathers on him. Could have been a demon, I suppose.”

Tyrael listened to the evolving story with a twitch to his brow. Tristram was home to neither bird man nor demon, and he doubted the sighting was anything more than the product of an alcohol addled brain. Still, drunken delusions could carry with them fragments of truth.

“Which way did he run?”

“Towards the town gates. Then off into the darkness. I ne’er saw him after.”

“Dear, I _really_ think we should be leaving now.”

“You only think so because you don’t believe me. Go an’ ask Isaac, he’ll tell ye the same!”

“Did he drink from the same cup?” Tyrael couldn’t help but ask.

“Nay, but he saw as I did, rightly, and with his own peepers!”

“Then I think I will go check on this miscreant with _my_ peepers.” He bowed and stepped away, as the woman attempted to wrangle her husband in the general direction of their home. “Good evening.”

* * *

Outside of Tristram’s gates, where cobblestone gave way to dirt, Tyrael found a set of tracks leading into the forest. Two sets, truthfully. One clearly human, five toes per foot, without boot or greave.

The other set was something else entirely.

He dropped to his knees and traced the outline with a finger. Deep tracks. A heavy creature. The prints disappeared into the trees, where they faded away into the darkness. Nearby, something else glimmered. He reached for it, then held it up between gauntleted fingers. A plum coloured feather reflected opalescently in the moonlight.

“Brother,” he sighed, stashing the plumage in a pouch in case he needed it later. “By Diablo’s horned crown, what trouble have you found yourself in now?”

* * *

Malthael groaned as the comforting blackness was interrupted by sunlight. It hurt his eyes even behind his arm.

“Brother.” A towering shadow mercifully blocked the rest of the morning glow. “I see you are finally awake.”

“Verily, and blinded.” He blinked away crust, before deciding waking had been a terrible idea. He rolled away from Tyrael and tugged the quilt with him, pressing his forehead to the cool outer wall. Each time his head throbbed, he leaned harder against the wood.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

His temples ached like they had been run through, and the mere thought of breakfast sent his stomach churning. He distantly remembered there being a tavern and a table he was supposed to wait at. More, he couldn’t remember. From Tyrael’s reaction, though, he assumed he had neglected that singular duty.

“Leave me,” he rasped. “You pain my head.”

“No. Not until we discuss things! It was hard enough for me to convince Bron to let you into the tavern in the first place. And then, to find you were traipsing about town—”

Ah, so that was what had happened. He had frightened some of the townsfolk, or perhaps one of the newer Nephalem. A mistake, but not a critical one.

“—you’re not even listening, are you?” The bed rocked as Tyrael clanged a greave against the side of the headboard, causing Malthael to flinch. “I found you prone at the foot of a tree!”

_Tree?_ He didn’t recall that part. “For the best. You are hardly dressed to climb.”

“This is not funny, Malthael.”

Oh, but it was. He remembered nothing at all beyond the haze of the tavern, and the only way he could temper his growing concern over what he had done the previous evening was to ignore it. With a strong dose of sarcasm, preferably. The latter did not help the situation, but it certainly made him feel better.

Tyrael grunted, his armor clanking as he settled onto the foot of the bed. “You really remember nothing?”

“No.”

“Not even why you were naked?”

He swore and tugged the quilt further, until it properly blocked out the light and muffled his hearing. That was enough distressing news for the day. He wasn’t entirely sure he even believed Tyrael. Gallivanting about without clothing was not something he regularly practiced, and he couldn’t think of any reason why he would disrobe in front of others.

He closed his eyes and decided his brother was firmly, as the mortals sometimes said, pulling his leg.

In response, Tyrael snorted and stood. “As you would, then. Rest as you need. We can discuss your flagrant disrespect for my instructions later.”

“Good. Leave me.”

The scrape of greaves on wood tapped towards the door. “Gods help me, I don’t understand how Lyndon tolerates you.”

“Kinship among imbeciles. And you are still too loud.”

Tyrael replied by snapping the door closed emphatically behind him.

Finally. Silence. And with it, a return to sleep and ignorance as to where his clothing had vanished. He could parse out the problem much easier when his mind no longer felt as though it were being squeezed between pincers.

Someone somewhere had his shirt and pants. He would find and recover them.

Eventually.

_ **FIN** _


End file.
